Ninja Versus Pirate Featuring Zombies

by James Marshall

  “I’ve got my ninja outfit in my backpack.”

  “That’s what you said.”

  “I mean. When there’s trouble. If you need a hand or anything.”

  “Thanks. I’m heavily armed right now, so I think I’m good, which is actually a pretty deep comment.”

  “Gotcha.”

  All of a sudden the girl down the hall starts screaming again. This time she screams louder and at a higher frequency, like what’s happening to her now is the worst so far, and the worst she can possibly survive. I don’t know what’s more startling: the scream or when it stops.

  Abruptly. Her head hangs again. This time her long blonde hair doesn’t. It, along with her white silk gown, gets blown to the side by a strong but unfelt wind.

  The ninja finally acknowledges the girl’s miserable existence. “What’s her problem?” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

  “She’s being tortured by the unknown.”

  “Does that happen a lot around here?”

  “Yeah. This is Scare City High. You’re new so you don’t know. This place is pretty much a horror movie. I’ve managed to learn everything that happens here is because of a shadowy figure called The Principal. He wants us all to become zombies or zombie food. Basically, I’m searching for him with an eye toward destroying him. It’s no big deal.

  Hey. Can I ask you something about black guys?” I realize that sounds like a random question, but the

  handsome, strong-looking ninja is black. Actually, his skin is more like a beautiful golden-brown colour. It’s either from a lack of something or an abundance of something; I can’t remember which, what, or if I ever knew. [Interesting tidbit, ninjas don’t wear black outfits; they wear dark red, white, or blue; get it straight, Hollywood. (White can be dark too, especially in snow shadows.)] I just didn’t mention the attractive, physically intimidating ninja is black, or golden brown, earlier, because I’m so tolerant.

  “What do you want to know about black guys?” asks the ninja. “Is it the penis thing?”

  “No,” I say, making a face like, that’s ridiculous. The hallway goes dark. For a moment, the only light to

  be seen, or seen by, is the open cell phones down the hall, mechanically struggling to witness the girl’s torment in the gloom. Then the tube-shaped artificial suns hanging over us precariously in their rectangular metal boxes dangling from wires not meant to bear this kind of weight—wrapped tightly around each other, like lovers’ legs—begin to flicker again.

  The ninja’s hair, cropped brutally closely, is merciless shades of brown darker than his skin. “Is it the rhythm thing?”

  “No.”

  “The athletic thing?” The ninja’s closely cropped hair is sculpted, heartlessly; never moving, or always moving unobserved, and silently, it flows in ruthless curves and viciously straight lines.

  “The short temper thing? The absentee father thing?”

  “It was the penis thing,” I confess.

  “I don’t know about all black guys,” says the ninja, nodding, like he thought so, “but I have an enormous penis.”

  “That’s great,” I say, sincerely, lifting my bottle to him.

  “Seriously. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. Hey.” He points at me. “You want to see it?”

  He starts undoing his jeans.

  “Yes and no.”

  Before I know it, I’m gawking at what can only be described as a long, thick, milk-chocolate brown serpent; some kind of giant whacked-out treat you’d get if Easter was way different.

  “All men were not created equal,” I say, staring at the ninja’s huge penis.

  “It’s kind of a waste,” he says, shrugging, putting it away. “I can’t use very much of it without hurting . . .

  people.”

  It occurs to me now that I shouldn’t refer to the ninja as black or golden brown. I should refer to him as African-American. I hate that, though. Aren’t we all African-Americans? I mean, when you get right down to it? Obviously, people who aren’t American aren’t AfricanAmericans, but they wish they were. American. They probably don’t wish they were black, if they’re white. Because of discrimination. Racism. That’s wrong, though. Black people are white people too! Seriously. They’re close enough. We should start saying so. It’s going to be awkward with the really dark ones but we’ll get used to it.

  The stroboscopic girl suffering at the hands of the unknown is now dangling face-down in mid-air! It seems she’s being held up by her splayed arms and legs; they’re higher than the rest of her body. Her white silk gown and her long blonde hair are being buffeted downwards by a wind from above. One male teenager holds his up his cell phone and jumps, taking pictures of her ass. The girl isn’t screaming anymore. A small but discernible vibration courses through her thin body. A space opens below her. The ninja’s backpack is slung over one shoulder; his thumb is under the strap. He directs my attention behind my back and says, “Four exotically beautiful Eastern European girls down there are staring at my muscular chest, shoulders, arms, and my I’ve-been-told-repeatedly-by-a-large-number-of-people really cute butt.”

  “Right on.”

  “Quick word about my naked body,” he says. “Amazing.” I don’t really know what to say to that, so I say, “Okay.” All of a sudden, the suspended girl starts falling. It happens outside of regular time. I see it as a slow, peaceful descent but I know it’s a brutal, violent event for her. Her hands and feet, which were higher than her body, are now lower than her body. They’re being pulled toward the floor faster than her body can fall. She’s not being dropped; she’s being yanked straight down. Her long blonde hair and white silk gown, which had been oriented downwards, now shoot upwards while she descends so painfully slowly. I want to scream. In my fear for her. I want to yell. For someone to catch her. But it all happens too slowly.

  She mashes into the floor. Her flesh flows out in waves that would crash and splash if not for her skin. Her ribcage compresses visibly; it cracks audibly. Her legs and arms, which hit the ground first, are already airborne again in their upward bounce. They reach their apex and are restrained by biology and physics when her anguished head hits rock bottom, cracks open, and spills shades of grey. My demons, Mike Hawk and York Hunt, are suddenly standing next to the ninja and me. They’re eating Hot Pockets and drinking Red Bulls, as usual.

  Mike Hawk turns to York Hunt, lifts his Hot Pocket, and says, “Is it wrong to call it a Hot Pocket if it’s cold?” York gestures at me with his chin and says, “You should befriend this ninja. He seems like a good guy. And he could prove a valuable ally in your quest to vanquish The Principal.”

  My other demon, Mike, stamps his foot. “Dude,” he says, holding his Hot Pocket at York, shaking it for

  emphasis. “I’ve got to warm this bad boy up.”

  My demons disappear between flickers of the lights. “One of the four exotically beautiful Eastern European girls I mentioned earlier is coming over now,” says the ninja.

  “I’m watching her, but I don’t need to because I can sense the presence of everyone around me. My father, who’s also a ninja, trained me while I was in the womb, my mother’s womb of course, she’s a terrific lady, I can’t say enough great things about her, you should meet her sometime, I think you’d really like her, and, like I was saying, my father trained me to sense the presence of everyone around me.” I reach into my locker, grab my smokes and lighter, stick a fresh cigarette between my lips, and light it.

  “Hetrained you in the womb?” I jut out my lower lip and blow smoke in front of my face.

  “That’s right. Using age-old ninja techniques, he trained me in the use of various fighting styles and weapons while I was still in the womb.”

  Casually, leaning back against my locker, I look over, and check out the four girls he’s been talking about. They’re exotically beautiful all right. I don’t know how he can tell they’re Eastern European, though. “How’d you get weapons in there?”

  “
My father knew a guy.”

  “Ah.” I watch as one of the four exotically beautiful girls leaves her smiling friends and starts walking toward us. In the horror survival hall, she’s a goddess. Her shiny black hair bounces with each of her steps. It floats weightlessly, falls, and dances. She turns and looks back at her three beautiful friends who urge her on, clinging to each other for support, like the suspense is killing them. When the goddess turns back towards us, laughing, a few strands of raven hair twirl in front of her face, but she sweeps the darkness away with one elegant hand, like it’s nothing.

  “When it was time for my birth,” continues the ninja, “I decided I wanted to set out on my own for a while, to be independent: to find myself and see the world. When I say the world, I mean America. The doctor planned to deliver me via C-section, but I’d never allow anyone to cut my mother. It took every ounce of self-restraint I had not to kill all the people who’d even considered cutting my mother. When they were gathered for the surgery, I slipped, undetected, from my mother. With the umbilical cord in one hand, I jumped off the table. With my free hand, I grabbed a scalpel off a nearby tray. The umbilical cord pulled tight when I was a few inches from the ground. I cut myself loose. I dropped into the fighting stance. No one noticed.

  Suddenly the alarms connected to the monitors attached to my mother informed the doctor and nurses that something was amiss. In the confusion, I made my escape. I kept the scalpel in case anyone tried to stop me. No one did. They found me six months later, just outside Raleigh, working construction. When interviewed, my coworkers confessed they were never aware I was a baby.”

  “Hey,” I say, before the goddess can reach us, “allow me to introduce myself.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Guy Boy Man, which, I admit, is pretty weird, because I’m neither Asian nor a series of keywords to search for gay porn, or for heterosexual porn, if you’re a chick, which you aren’t.”

  “Hi, Guy Boy Man,” he says, taking my hand, shaking it. “I’m Sweetie Honey.”

  CHAPTER THREE:

  she has a Tongue-Piercing But That Doesn’t mean anything

  The exotically beautiful Eastern European girl wearing purple high heels, thigh-high purple-and-black horizontally striped leggings, a black skirt, and a tight purple T-shirt reaches Sweetie Honey. “Hi.” She lifts her shoulders and holds them up for a moment to apologize for interrupting. When she sees it’s cool, she lowers her shoulders, looks Sweetie up and down, and bites her lower lip, sexily.

  Sweetie turns to his locker. He lets his backpack slip off his shoulder and catches the strap in one hand before it hits the ground.

  “Hi,” he says, heroically. There’s something so daring and bold about the way he says, “Hi.” Seriously. If

  he said “Hi” to you, you’d probably follow him into combat. Not that he’d need your help or anything.

  In her left hand, hanging down by her side, the gorgeous girl holds a laptop and a textbook. Of the four girls, all of whom have bangs and bobs, this girl has the darkest, blackest hair. Her purple T-shirt is tight enough to reveal she isn’t wearing a bra and to suggest the shape of her medium-sized breasts. Her short black skirt reveals a

  few tantalizing inches of her long shapely legs’ flesh before they disappear into her horizontally striped black and purple leggings. Now that she’s closer, I see her leggings are covered with fishnets that have small diamonds, which are covered with fishnets that have bigger diamonds. The diamonds are empty. She smiles and holds out her hand to Sweetie. “I’m Oana.”

  “Nice to meet you, Oana.” Shaking her hand, Sweetie is so cool you could use him to ship lettuce.

  “Listen,” says Oana, seriously, when they let go of each other’s hands. “You’re probably wondering about my exotic beauty.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well it’s the result of years of genetic research done by a group of diabolical scientists in former Soviet bloc countries.”

  Sweetie nods. “I figured it was probably something like that.” He unzips his backpack.

  “Their goal was to breed and then modify, behaviourally, attractive women to infiltrate various governments by marrying or having affairs with high-ranking male officials.”

  Staring at Sweetie’s chest, Oana’s mouth stays open a little, and her luscious pink tongue plays behind her perfect white teeth.

  “So the diabolical scientists were men.” Leaving his ninja outfit in the backpack, Sweetie pulls out a textbook and examines it.

  “They were men for the most part.” Oana frowns. “Did you deduce that from the fact that, traditionally, males

  have been considered more likely to become scientists and so, subconsciously at least, teachers have encouraged them more than their female counterparts?”

  “No. I assumed they were men because they thought you could rise to positions of power more easily through your sexuality than through your intellect.”

  Disgusted, Sweetie slams the textbook into his locker. Metal clangs when it impacts.

  “Actually, they didn’t. It’s just much easier to breed beauty than it is to breed political ambition and cunning.”

  With both arms straight, Oana holds her laptop and textbook in front of her. “Also, sadly, women have a harder time succeeding in governmental life than men do.”

  Sweetie turns on her. “Are you making excuses for diabolical Eastern European scientists?”

  She looks at him, wide-eyed. “No. Of course not.”

  Her sincerity calms him. “Good.” He pulls another textbook from his backpack. “Just checking.”

  “So what’s your name?”

  “Sweetie Honey.” His right bicep bulges against the side of his manly chest as he studies the back of this book. “Of course it is.” She reaches out and puts her hand on his swelling arm. “It has to be. I can’t think of anything else to call you.”

  “Honey is the family name. My mom named me Sweetie.”

  Oana caresses Sweetie’s arm, mesmerized by it. “Your mom sounds like a saint.”

  “She is. She has a tongue-piercing but that doesn’t mean anything.” With his square-jawed chin, Sweetie

  Honey gestures over at the other three exotically beautiful Eastern European girls watching him from the end of the hall. “Who are your friends?”

  Oana doesn’t even look. “Iulia, Marta, and Agata.”

  When she notices the way Sweetie Honey is eyeing her, she adds, “In Eastern Europe, we are suspicious of the ‘h’ and the ‘j.’ The ‘h,’ when it is small, looks like a chair. Is it an electric chair? We don’t know. Is it a regular chair sitting on a trap door? Again, we don’t know. When it’s big, the ‘H’ is always dangerous. If you pass under it, maybe the bar will fall on you. If you go over it, possibly the bar will shoot up when you’re halfway across. And the ‘j,’ whether big or small, is always a hook. In Eastern Europe, we don’t get caught.”

  “I don’t get caught, either,” says Sweetie Honey. “I’m a ninja.”

  “That’s so exciting,” says Oana, gasping.

  “Are your friends the product of genetic research and behaviour modification, as well?”

  “Yes.”

  Sweetie nods knowingly, probably because before he merely wondered and thought, but he didn’t know, and now he does, or thinks so, or is at least willing to let it go. Oana traces the tips of her fingernails down Sweetie’s arm to his strong hand. She clasps it desperately and pulls it toward her, achingly. “The four of us are new to this school, but we’re going to be the most popular girls here in no time.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. People are so shallow.” Sweetie looks down the horror show hall, probably thinking about the cruelty of it all.

  With straight legs, Oana leans down dangerously close to the weapon in the front of Sweetie Honey’s pants, and she kisses the back of his hand instead of lifting it and possibly annoying him. When she straightens back up, she says, “We haven’t received our orders yet, about whom we should marry, or have affairs with, so we
just kind of glom onto any alpha males around.”

  Sweetie Honey glares at her, critically. “You should resist your genetic imperative.”

  Suddenly Big Max starts pushing his way through the crowd in the hallway toward us. In warning, the raven on my shoulder bounces, lifting its open beak toward Big Max, cawing. Big Max strides right up to Oana. “What are you doing?” he demands. “I’m the most popular guy in school. If you and your friends want to be the most popular girls in school”—he pokes his thumb into his chest—“you have to be with me.”

  “Get lost,” says Oana, annoyed. “We already know about you. Your popularity is entirely sports-related. While it’s true you might become a professional athlete someday and make millions of dollars, you’ll never be as amazing as Sweetie Honey.” She looks at Sweetie dreamily.

  “I’m really upset by this stuff you’re saying,” says Big Max, frowning. “I’m going to take out my hurt and

  frustration on this monkey.” He points at Sweetie Honey. Everyone gasps.

  “Wait a minute,” I tell the gathering crowd, holding out my hand at them to stop. “Most of us are strict Creationists. Maybe Big Max isn’t. Maybe Big Max acknowledges the objective scientific validity of the theory of evolution, in which case, calling Sweetie Honey a monkey isn’t derogatory because, according to evolution, we’re all primates. Is that it, Big Max?”

  “No,” says Big Max, cracking his knuckles. “It was a racial slur. I’m a strict Creationist too.”

  I stick my cigarette between my lips, set down my bottle of whiskey, reach back, and pull out one of my ninemillimetres. I point it at Big Max. “Big Max seems troubled!

  He could be armed! I’m going to take him down!” I pull back the slide to chamber a round, but a round goes flying out when I do, because I’d already chambered a round, but I forgot. “Hold on!” I crouch down, search the school’s rubble, pick up the unspent bullet, clean off the debris, pop out the clip, reload the bullet, and slam the clip back home. I stand and examine the gun. “Okay I think I’m . . . no.” I click off the safety. “Yeah. I’m ready now.” I point the nine millimetre at Big Max again.